


[this is the first song for your mixtape]

by cherryvanilla



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-17
Updated: 2010-11-17
Packaged: 2017-10-13 06:25:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/133991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryvanilla/pseuds/cherryvanilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing is; Eames had always flirted with you, right from the beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	[this is the first song for your mixtape]

**I.** _Everytime I think of you  
I feel a shot  
right through  
with a bolt of blue_

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

As first meetings go, it had all been terribly theatrical. Eames had cupped your hand between his and murmured, “Oh darling, you are destined to break my heart.” You’d simply given him a blank stare and reclaimed your hand.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The thing is; Eames had always flirted with you, right from the beginning. It had never mattered if he’d had boyfriends or if you’d had girlfriends (or boyfriends). Actually, they were never really boyfriends for you; they were boys you’d fuck, not love. For you, it had always been easier to be with girls romantically; it’s expected of them and as much as it chagrined you to admit it, you’re a gentleman at heart. Eames had always delighted in flirting with you when you’d been otherwise attached.

The girl would look faintly amused at first but then her eyes would begin to narrow slightly, especially if the touching had begun. After a few occasions of this, she would start to wonder why he’s always around if you’re only ‘co-workers’ and you would always say you can’t help it if he frequents the same locales. Soon afterward, she’d throw a drink in your face and storm out.

Eames’ men dealt differently. The first time Eames, you’d all been out for a drink after work. Eames’ guest, Stephen, had been an unexpected surprise. Eames hanging all over you had been a surprise in the least. The surprise had soon returned though when Stephen had cornered you at the bar and propositioned a threesome. Your eyes had widened in shock and met Eames’ across the room; his had danced with delight in return.

The second time had been very selfless Australian who had tried to make it his mission to get the two of you together, insisting there was ‘a romance for the ages there’. Eames had been ecstatic to learn the man claimed to be psychic. You’d just downed more alcohol.

**II.** _You just can't believe me  
when I show you what you mean to me  
you just can't believe me  
when I show you what you cannot see_

  


_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

About two months ago, you had been standing outside the warehouse in Paris. Dom and Mal had begged off for the evening, leaving you and Eames in an awkward silence. Well, awkward for you; Eames had been in his glory, eyes sparklingly with mischief and enumerable ideas.

You’d never been so happy to see Eames’ latest boy toy, an American named Andrew, pull up in a taxi. They’d started to kiss, and if you’d looked away for a minute it was simply because an image in the distance caught your eye. Andrew had then begun talking of going out for the evening and that was your cue to leave, but Eames had stopped you. “Arthur, luv, what do you say? Live a little. For me.”

You’d been about to retort when Andrew’s annoyed voice had chimed in, “Seriously, Eames, what’s with all the pet names for this guy? You never call me ‘luv’ or ‘darling’.” You had to give the kid credit for sounded pissed off rather than whiney.

Eames had turned to him, unruffled in appearance yet sarcasm had dripped from his voice. “Oh I’m so sorry, daaahhling, how ever can I make it up to you, sweetie pie, baby doll?”

Arthur had swatted at his hands and dropped his voice lower, “I just don’t understand why we can’t go out alone.”

“Because I want Arthur here to have some fun,” and you’d definitely heard some edge in his voice that time. “So, what do you say, Arthur dear? Come to the club with us.”

You’d kept your eyes on Andrew, who had been staring daggers at Eames’ back but never once made motion to leave. It was then you had realized what an amazing shag (if you will) Eames must be.

Andrew had hailed a cab, and his mouth had dropped wide open when Eames climbed into the back seat with you. Andrew had spent the majority of the ride staring icily at you in the side mirror while Eames had chattered your ear off.

“How can you not know of The Jesus and Mary Chain?”

You’d simply shrugged. “Never came up on my radar.”

“Well then your radar sucks, luv.”

“Matter of perspective.”

“Just Like Honey—you must at least know Just Like Honey. Their most mainstream hit, especially after that movie.”

“Oh. Yeah, okay. They’re alright.”

Eames had sputtered. “Alright? Alright?! Arthur, I’m making you a mix. No arguments.”

“I like ‘em,” Andrew had chimed in from the front seat.

Eames had leaned forward and rested his hands on either headrest. “Oh yeah?” he’d asked brightly, “Name one record.”

You love the way Eames says record. ‘Re-cord’, heavy emphasis on the second syllable and it makes your insides go soft and hard all at once.

Andrew’s only response had been silence. Eames had flicked his ear affectionately and you couldn’t understand why that made you grind your teeth so much.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

When you’d arrived at the club, Blue Monday 1988 had been thrumming through the speakers. Eames had slammed back a shot of Jagermeister and leaned close to yell in your ear. “How can you possibly prefer Joy Division?”

“How can you *not*?” you yelled back.

“Dear Arthur, New Order is superior in many shapes and forms, not to mention the evolution of their sound.”

“Disagree!”

“Have you even listened to their full records?”

“Some!”

Eames had downed another shot, then handed one off to you. The liquid had been just the burn you’d needed.

“I’ll burn you some more!”

You’d waved your empty beer bottle at him absently. “I’m getting another drink!”

You’d made your through the crowd to the ridiculously placed bar, which was far too close to the dance floor and there’d been no way to tell whether most people were dancing or actually waiting to be served.

You’d just gotten the bartender’s attention when strong arms had slipped around your waist. You’d tensed immediately and had been posed to strike when a voice yelled near your ear, “Two 1664’s.”

You’d sort of hated yourself for relaxing once you’d realized it was Eames. Unfortunately in order for him to hear you, you’d nearly had to rest the back of your head on his shoulder. “I can pay for my own drinks!”

“Never!” His breath had been far too warm next to your ear and you had tried not to shudder. Eames dislodged himself to pay for the drinks and you’d nearly sigh in relief.

You’d both stood quietly, facing the dance floor while you drank. The song had blended into something else with a great beat and your hips had begun to move slightly on their own accord. Naturally, Eames had noticed. Suddenly, the drink had been pulled from your hand and Eames had stood in front of you, tugging at your biceps.

“I see you, Arthur! Dance with me, you’re just itching to.”

You’d shaken your head resolutely.

His hands had settled on your hips and he’d pulled you in close, moving to the rhythm. “Yes! You’re going to have fun,” he’d yelled, cheek brushing against your own.

“No, Eames.” And in that moment, you didn’t understand why you had refused. Eames had been relaxed and playful and you’d definitely been on your way to drunk, the tension already mostly gone from your shoulders. You didn’t fully understand why you could not let go around this guy. You can have fun with other people but refuse to let yourself with Eames. And although the man infuriates you on most occasions, you don’t dislike him. There’s something else.. with Eames, if you were to let go it will be the point of no return and you’ll never want to come back to reality. Seriousness will be forgone, not to mention professionalism. But no, there was more still. Eames is far too focused on you, too intense. His stare is unnerving, with narrowed intensity. Most of the time (like in that moment actually) you’d have to look behind you to see who exactly is on the receiving end of such a stare; it was always you. You couldn’t understand what you did to become the receiver of such looks.

So, you’d looked behind yourself once again; no one in particular had been there of course. Then you’d decided to scan the room for Andrew, whom you had found back at the table, wearing an enraged expression. Eames’ fingers on your jaw had drawn you back. His stare was still intense but something had shifted in it. His arms had tightened around your waist and he’d forced you into a slow, grinding rhythm.

“Wish you’d let yourself go, Arthur, just for one night,” he’d breathed. You’d felt your whole body flush. His groin had pressed against your thigh, and you’d felt the heat of his erection. You’d bitten your lip and were about to push free when his voice had come, soft and wet against your ear. “But I know you won’t. You won’t let me take you back to mine, kiss you up against the door of my flat.”

Your eyes had widened in shock and a groan had accidentally escaped your lips; you’d never been so happy for the surrounding noise.

“Climb over you on the bed, lick my way down your body, suck your cock till you scream.” Blood had rushed in your ears and throughout your body, pooling your cock and you know he must have felt you. You’d never thought this would happen; never expected that he would succumb to something so overt. You’d decided after he must have been drunker than you thought.

You had then realized he’d still been talking. “…let me fuck you, all slow and drawn out until you beg for more.” Your fingers had tightened around his shoulders. “I know you won’t let me do all these things, so I’ll take Andrew home, shag him senseless, and bite my lip so as not to call out the wrong name when I come.”

He’d been so hard against you and your body had throbbed. It would have been so damn easy to kiss in that moment; grind against him helplessly the way you had been aching to. But you’d remember stares you couldn’t possibly live up to and extraction jobs that had need your complete attention. He had been looking at you once again and you knew he had seen desire in your eyes; hell, he could feel it.

You’d cleared your throat and raised your voice a little. “Andrew’s um, over there,” you waved absently and had watched as Eames’ eyes flickered with brief disappointment, then had cleared. His fingers had grazed the base of your neck and he had kissed you quickly, chastely, on the check. “Sweet dreams, Arthur.” You hadn’t watched him walk away.

You don’t see Andrew again after that night. A treacherous thought had emerged that it had been due to Eames actually calling out your name in error. The same thought had caused you to jerk off roughly in the shower, coming so hard you’d had to slide down the titles rather than risk falling over.

The next few times you saw Eames afterward that you couldn’t help but blush. He didn’t bring up that night again but his words hung in the air every time you looked at him.

 

 **III.** _we keep building  
then burning down love_

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Mal had liked working out of Paris because her parents were there. They could watch the kids easily and spend quality time with them as well. Dom and Mal have a proper house in L.A. but most of everyone’s time was spent in Paris, taking local jobs, testing the technology via dry runs, and then you’d all part ways for weeks or sometimes months at a time. Mal and Dom would return to L.A., you’d stay and Paris, and Eames would more often than not travel to wherever the hell Eames goes. You refused to admit to missing him and those feelings were helped by the blessed out look he’d often have on his face upon returning for a job; you’d simply grind your teeth.

One time you were all out a local pub: Eames, flying solo; Melanie, this pretty French girl you were seeing, and Dom and Mal. Mal and Melanie had been talking about some new designer perfume when Where the Streets Have No Name came on.

Eames had begun talking about how it’s one of his favorite openings of all-time and how he thinks of Patrick Bateman when Bono sings “I wanna run.” Melanie, who had been half listening, asked who Patrick Bateman was. The look Eames had given you in return made you want to die. You usually could keep up with Eames’ pop culture references; you couldn’t say the same for your dates. Melanie had gotten distracted in the few seconds after her question. Eames had closed his eyes and listened to the music. You’d taken that moment to allow your eyes to take purchase of his features. His cheekbones were high and chiseled, the curve of his jaw was a sin in itself, and his eye lashes were long like a girls’. When he had opened them he’d stared right at you, as if he’d been reading your thoughts.

“I’d fuck Bono,” he’d announced resolutely.

You’d nearly sputtered into your beer. “Seriously?”

He’d grinned, and then had thought for a moment. “Well, maybe not current Bono. Too worn in the face. And that hair, gracious. But 80’s Bono, with the long locks. Oh, yes. Definitely fuckable.”

“Who’s fuckable?” Mal had asked. It had sounded obscene coming from her dainty mouth. Dom had peered over to listen as well.

“80’s Bono,” Eames had replied cheerfully. Mal had considered this, as did Dom. Melanie had giggled, high and nervous.

“Who would you fuck, Arthur?” The heat in Eames’ voice would have been missed if one hadn’t been listening for it; you had.

“Not Bono, that’s for sure,” you’d deflect. Melanie had giggled some more.

Eames had just stared at you some more, while Dom and Mal bad begun discussing U2. Suddenly, there’d been a finger lightly stroking the side of your knee. When Eames voice had sounded, it’d been a low and heady. “Not one for the Irish, hm? Maybe we should stick to Brits, then.” You’d nearly choked and had shoved at his hand. It’d been one of the hardest things you’d had to do. The light in his eyes had not died however, not even when Melanie suggestively (annoyingly) had purred, “Or Parisians.” That night, even after bedding Melanie, the sexiest touch had still been a solitary finger on your leg.

 **IV.** _but you’re so cute  
when you’re frustrated dear _

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Many of your non-work conversations did tend to center around music. Eames was very much a self-proclaimed Musicphile.

“Darling, come with me to The Zenith to see that fabulous Brit band,” Eames had asked last week, even though you know very well he’d been seeing some Brit named James for about a month now.

“Which band?” you’d asked, not looking up from the accounts in front of you.

“Interpol.”

You’d dropped your pencil and fought the smile curving over your lips. Even a self-proclaimed Musicphile didn’t know all, it seemed. “Eames, we’ve gone over this a thousand times. They’re from Brooklyn.”

“But they sound English.”

“They’re American.”

“Bullocks. Next you’ll be telling me The Strokes are yanks too.”

“They are.”

“The National?”

“Uh-huh.”

“MGMT?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Eames had put his hands on his hips. And at that point, a smile had graced your lips. “Really, Arthur, must you take credit for all the good music in the world?”

“Eames, your country brought us The Beatles, Radiohead, The Rolling Stones and The Who, to name a few. I think you have the monopoly on great music.”

Eames had scrunched up his face like he’d just smelt something foul. “How dare you mention The Who and The Stones in that group.”

You’d been speechless for a second. “You’re joking, right?”

“’Fraid not. Terribly overrated, those two.”

“Wow, that’s just. Wrong on so many levels.”

“Oh come on, Arthur, mediocre at best, particularly The Stones. Not even a handful of strong records. Exile is dreadful and you lot hated it when it first came out. Now you can’t stop praising it.”

You’d taken pause for a moment. “Alright, I know there’s something the Brits have been contradictory about, and when I think of it, you’ll be in trouble.”

Eames had just laughed a beautiful laugh. “Oh before I forgot, here’s another mix for you.”

When you’d taken it from his hands you thought you’d seen them shake for a moment. This one was different then the others he’d made you over the years. For one, it had been on cassette. Secondly, it’d seemed to have a theme that you could barely allow yourself to think of.

So you’d deflected – something you’ve become quite well at around Eames. “A cassette? Mr. Eames, you’re showing your age.”

Eames’ bright smile had returned. “Too much of this modern technology – good for some things, shite for others. Tell me Arthur, when’s the last time someone gave you a proper mixtape?”

You’d thought for a second. “Judy Mitchell. 9th grade.”

Eames had shaken his head sadly. “Tragic.”

A genuine smile had broken out over lips and you’d skimmed your fingers over the plastic in your palm. You actually could have talked to him forever, but then Mal had called you both over for a practice run and it had been back to reality; or at least your skewed sense of it. It hadn’t been until that evening that you’d realized you forgot say yes or no to the concert.

 

 **V.** _but if you wait around awhile  
i’ll make you fall for me _

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Late last night Eames had saddled up to you at the bar, James in tow. You’d already been a little buzzed, which might have heightened the feeling of death stares coming from Eames’ latest guy. Never in a million years did you think you’d be on the receiving end of so many evil looks.

Eames had leaned his head on your shoulder and whispered, “Hello, sexy.” You could smell the alcohol on his breath. “Drinking for one?” You’d glanced briefly at James, whose jaw had been clenched.

“Yeah.” In fact, you’d been trying to get your mind off the mix Eames had made you. Once you’d seen it contained the Dashboard Confessional/Michael Stipe version of Hands Down, you knew it would all be downhill from there. Eames had etched in selective lyrics like he was oft to do. He’d included ‘Mix Tape’ by Brand New as the opener for ‘aesthetic significance’ he’d indicted, ‘not lyrical content… you don’t have tattoos and you’d never criticize The Smiths.’ Then, in tiny secretive print he’d added, ‘and we’d never break up like that.’ You’re not sure if he’d wanted to you actually see that. A part of you had again wanted to blame possible drunkenness for the admissions prevalent in the mix but you’d hardly believed it yourself.

Eames had plopped down beside you, and James followed suit, with reluctance. “We just came from the concert. Wasn’t the same without you.”

“There were only two tickets, if you remember.” James hadn’t sounded angry, just tired.

Eames had stared at him. “Yes, thank you for that helpful reminder.”

You’d swallowed around your drink. “It was good then?”

“Fabulous. You wait here, I’m gonna put on a song.”

As Eames had walked away you’d heard James mutter, “yes, I’ll wait here too.”

Your buzz was totally gone by that point, and suddenly you hadn’t been able to escape the thick tension in the air.

“Is he always like this?” James had asked across the distance of an empty bar stool.

“Like what?” …even though you could hardly breathe.

“A bloody insensitive arse.”

You’d been about to open your mouth because it’s one thing for you to bad mouth Eames, but it’s another for... and then your internal monologue had shut down because how could you have possibly thought you had more rights than a guy Eames was seeing. After all, you’re only a damn co-worker.

“What I’m having a harder time understanding is what your deal is. Do you enjoy the hold you have over him?”

Your heart had stuttered in its chest and you’d thought of mix tapes and long looks and stolen touches. You’d taken a long sip of your drink and had forced yourself to meet his eyes. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

James had shaken his head in disgust. “You’re as bad as he is.” Then he walked out and when Eames had come back he didn’t even notice. Instead, he’d started talking to you about David Bowie and Iggy Pop around the blaring sounds of Moonage Daydream. You’d felt numb inside.

 

  
**VI.**   
_Aw it’s sick and oh it’s sad  
I think you’re something I can’t have_   


_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Why it happened the way it did, you couldn’t be sure. Perhaps James had wanted to be the man to put an end to it all. For whatever the reason, James had shown up at the warehouse earlier that evening. Luckily, the machine had not been out and mostly you’d been just sitting around while Dom drew on the dry-erase board. He’d carried a bag of items, which he’d flung at Eames’ chest. “There’s the shite you’ve left at my flat. Now you can fuck off, back to your fantasy land.”

Everyone had exchanged worried looks, automatically assuming James had been referring to the dreamscape; if only it had been that simple.

Eames had taken a step toward him, but stopped at the next words.

“You’re pathetic, Eames. Following him around like some lost puppy, hoping for the one shag you’ll never get. You’re like Vince in Queer as Folk.”

You’d froze in your seat and had focused your gaze on Eames. His shoulders had stiffened, and he’d crossed his arms over his chest. You’d never seen him in a pose that constrictive.

To your surprise, Eames hadn’t feigned ignorance. “I fail to see the comparison. He’s much more attractive than Stuart and I don’t even like Doctor Who.”

You hadn’t gotten the reference but it had caused James to roll his eyes, call Eames a “wanker”, and storm out.

Afterward, Eames would not meet your eyes. Instead, he’d looked toward Dom and Mal, attempting to laugh it off with comments about watching too many gay soaps and never picking up another guy he met online at Starbucks. You’d watched Dom’s face as he tried to mask pity with understanding; Mal had an even harder time. As if in some kind of fog, Eames had idly scratched at the back of his neck and decided to call it a night. Your legs had itched to follow him, but you couldn’t make them move.

**VII.** _But you cannot safely say  
that while I will be away  
You will not consider sadly  
How you helped me stray _

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

And this brings us to the present case in point: Eames has always flirted with you. So when he suddenly stops, it’s like a bucket of ice water. He’s not himself the rest of the week. He’s quiet, withdrawn, and worst of all there’s no flirting; not an ounce. When he talks to you it’s all business. Dom casts worried looks in both of your directions but otherwise keeps silent. You notice Mal pull Eames aside at one point, but he just shakes his head idly and walks into the next room; you kind of freak out when she won’t meet your eyes.

You begin poking at him figuratively, trying to engage some type of snide remark. You bad mouth his work ethic without malice but he still doesn’t rise to the bait. You decide to try some different tactics.

He’s sitting on the lawn chairs, studying some blueprints. “So, I listened to some Jesus and Mary Chain. Really not a fan.” Which is bullshit; you’re rather obsessed.

Eames doesn’t even glance up. “They’re not for everyone.”

You’re stunned. You try again. “And Darklands was just abysmal.”

Not even a pause. “To each his own.” Now you’re flabbergasted. That’s Eames’ favorite album from them and one of his favorite albums ever. You’ve heard him say that he can’t understand why people found it inferior, especially to Psycho Candy which he wasn’t all that crazy about. You expected an impassioned, but also playful, fight and instead you’re greeted to a boring shell of a man. You leave without another word, unable to stand this another second.

The next night Dom forces Eames to come out with the three of you, and he eventually gives in. Your stomach leaps and you start outlining your game plan in the car.

You palm your totem in your pocket while sitting at the bar, partly for reassurance, partly for luck. When Bizarre Love Triangle comes on you nearly kiss the sticky wooden table in front of you. Eames is nursing a beer in the corner on one of the benches; you’re seated in a chair opposite him. You study his profile reflected in the mirrored glass beside him. Dom and Mal are having an argument at the bar. You figure you’ve got nothing to lose.

“So, I actually think I may like the In Session version of Atmosphere better than the original.”

Eames makes a non-committal noise and picks at the label of his beer, eyes downcast. You don’t even know where to go from here. New Order is Eames’ all-time favorite band. He should be delighted that you’re complimenting them, especially after he burned the tracks personally for you. The other day you were flipping through your Ipod, stopped on both versions, listened to them back to back, and thought of Eames.

“And Power, Corruption, and Lies is a great album.”

The thing is, you’re not saying anything untrue; you’re just apparently being too obvious.  
Eames’ eyes snap up. “Arthur, that’s enough. You can stop taking the piss.”

“What? I’m not ... _‘taking the piss’_.”

Eames’ eyes darken. “Then it’s worse than I thought and you’re taking pity. Just bugger off, okay?”

You’re sure the shock shows on your face. “Eames..”

“I’m not your trained seal, Arthur. I cannot perform to your every command.”

Dom and Mal approach the table just as Eames rises and your jaw goes slack. “I must be off, important things to do and such. I’ll see you lot Monday.” His voice is tight and his eyes never glance at you. It feels as though someone’s stuck a knife in your heart and twisted. And you know exactly what that feels like because it happened last week in the dreamscape. This is ten times worse.

You gather your senses enough to look behind you and see that Dom has followed Eames to the door. Eames says something; an arm raised in frustration, and then pushes through the door with vigor. When Dom’s eyes meet yours they’re creased with worry. You’re getting very tired of that look as well.

The rest of the weekend, you nearly go stir crazy and decide come Monday you’re going to say something to fix this. Except when you get to the warehouse Dom is staring a note that says ‘Gone to Mombassa, don’t know if I’ll return. Love to all.’

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

You can’t breathe properly that entire day and what you suppose is your heart nearly breaks in two. Then Mal dies a few months later and it’s only then that you realize it actually was your heart since it’s now completely broken. You don’t ask Dom about inviting Eames to the funeral because Dom doesn’t want to talk about such things. You’re there for him as much as you can be for someone who is withdrawing completely. You think you see a dark figure standing near a tree at the burial site, but when you turn back again, it’s gone.

You think of contacting him countless times but then figured it wouldn’t do any good. Nothing’s officially changed; you still don’t know how to let your guard down around him. In fact, things are worse because he’ll never be the same around you; he’ll think of you as the man who saw him humiliated and didn’t care enough to say something in return. When you pack up your apartment in Paris, you find about five mixes, complete with handmade artwork consisting of lyrics and pasted together random newspaper clippings. On one section of The Jesus and Mary Chain mix, Eames had written the lyrics ‘step back and watch the sweet thing’ then drew and arrow and added ‘that’s you, luv’. You put the mix on and strongly consider buying a ticket to Mombassa instead of Los Angeles. Thing is, Eames hadn’t stayed in Mombassa long. You new this because of course you’d kept tabs on his rotating identities over the years. No, Eames had gone to Singapore after a few weeks, then cairo, Auckland, anywhere hot.

When Dom brings him in on the Fischer job, nearly a year and a half after he left, you freak out and throw a mini tantrum. And when Dom had asked where Eames was, and you’d found out his location mere days before, you hadn’t that it was Mombassa. Hated that you had to say the words aloud, forced to remember a past you’d soon rather forget.

When you first see him your heart leaps a few inches in your chest. After being around him in the warehouse for a bit, you have to finger the die because you’re sure this is a dream; it’s the old Eames, through and through. The teasing, the pet names, the childish pranks. So you fall into your old routine as well: stone-faced and pissed-off.

And then you all almost die, and you stare at him for long moments on the plane silently wishing he’d look at you. When he does your mouth goes dry. No ones ever looked at you the way he does; you can’t believe you’d nearly forgotten. He looks at you like you’re a rare artifact. He marvels at your very presence. And now that it’s been so long since you’ve experienced it, you’re not sure you can ever live without it again. You walk down the airport corridor and you can feel his eyes on you. When you look back at him he looks down, and the Eames of old starts to falter; giving way to the shell of a man that ran away from his friends. You never want to see that man again, but you’re not sure how to get him totally back. So, you ask him to come back to your apartment with you. You figure it’s a start.

**VIII.** _You are the only person  
who's completely certain  
there's nothing here to be into_

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The cab ride is silent, which is expected after the ordeal you’ve just been through. The stares, however, are full of promise and heat. Eames whistles lowly when he enters your apartment. “Nice, darling. How long have you lived here?”

“About eight months.”

Eames nods and you motion for him to put his bags down. “Would you like some water?”

“Please.” He follows you into the kitchen, taking in the surroundings. You place two bottles on the island, turning to face him. He starts to move towards you and your heart begins to race until you realize he’s simply reaching across you for the water. You try to quell your disappoint and settle on watching the long line of his neck as he takes a long gulp. When he licks his lower lip all of your self control nearly snaps. Instead, you slide out of your suit jacket and move to the hall to hang it up. When you return you notice Eames has removed his own jacket, hanging it on the back of one of the island chairs and is slowly unbuttoning the cuffs of his dress shirt. You gulp and take a few bold steps in his direction but stop before you can invade his personal space; he merely quirks an eyebrow at you.

You can’t do this anymore; you feel like a damn schoolboy. “Are we gonna talk about it?”

Eames sighs dramatically and doesn’t even pretend to misunderstand. “If you feel we must. You Yanks love to talk everything to death.”

Your eyes narrow. “Eames..”

“Darling..” A small smile plays on his lips.

You shake your head. “You’re impossible.”

“Now you’re acting like Arthur.”

You throw your hands up. “Fine, you win.”

Eames frowns, apparently hearing the slight edge to your voice, and sobers completely. “It touched a nerve, and you bloody well know that. It was time to give up the fantasy, so I left.”

Of course you’d known, but you never expected him to sum it all up that simply. In retrospect, you’re not sure why you expected a long drawn out explanation. “I’m sorry,” you say, and you’ve never meant anything more. If you added to any amount of hurt, you kind of hate yourself. Because Eames may be insufferable, but he’s not a bad person. In fact, he’s one of your favorite people; you just wish you’d told him that sooner.

Eames shrugs and picks at little at the back of a chair. “All in the past, luv.”

You stare at him until he’ll meet your eyes. “Is it?” Your voice is huskier than you intend.

He glowers at you. “Don’t play this game, Arthur.”

“What?” You ask, with genuine confusion.

“Don’t tell me you started wanting me the minute you realized you could no longer have me.”

You take a deep breath and decide it’s now or never. “There’re a few things wrong with that sentence.”

“Oh? My verb usage?”

“One, I wanted you about 15 minutes after I first met you. Two, I’ve always been able to have you.”

Eames rendered speechless is not an easily achievable task. He studies you briefly and then you’re up against the wall of your kitchen, next to the refrigerator and your hands immediately clutch at the back of his neck as your hips push into his. The mouth on yours is angry, relentless and then he’s prying open your lips with his tongue and you melt against him, moaning loudly and aching for more. His tongue is broad and tangles with your own, licking at your mouth like you’re the last drop of water from a canteen.

He pulls back to nip at your lower lip. “You realize,” he breathes, “we could have done this ages ago.” He runs his hands down your back, cupping your ass while simultaneously pushing you further against the wall. “I could know every inch of your body by now,” he whispers, mouth moving over your neck, laying a trail of open mouthed kisses. “What makes you scream… what you look like when you come.”

That’s going to be any second if he doesn’t stop. You almost say the words but settle for letting your head fall back against the wall. You pull at his shirt, “god I want you.”

He moans low in his throat and pins your hands suddenly above your head, letting you feel his rock hard erection grinding into your thigh. “Tell me what took so long.”

You feel your eyes darken with want yet your mind clears through the haze. You say the words you’ve been playing in your mind for months now. “I couldn’t get used to the way you saw me. You looked at me as if I were some rare diamond, meant to be adored; put on display. In my head, Eames, I’m just a man, a flawed man. No one’s ever looked at me like that and I couldn’t.. wouldn’t.. disappoint you with reality. Better you have some unattainable projection of me.”

You break your gaze, hating that he’s asked you this and you hate it even more that you’ve answered. Talk about a way to kill the mood. He’s very still where he stands and his hips have rolled back a fraction but his voice is soft, wondrous, when it sounds. “What changed?”

You force your eyes back to his face. “Inception. You saw me at my most flawed and the world didn’t end, even though I acted as though it would.”

He’s just looking at you; it’s unnerving and not in the good way. “Look, it was my own… insecurities, okay? I always knew what I wanted; I just ... didn’t think I could live up to your high standards, not to mention it affecting our professional relationship. And I was afraid of letting myself go with you, losing my way. Jesus, I sound like a girl. Can we continue this later, it’s killing the mood.” You suppose you’re the one with the drawn out explanation. Perhaps Eames was right about ‘Yanks.’

He smiles at you fondly. “You really are quite the tart, darling.”

You frown at him. “Am not.”

He leans in closer, runs his tongue over the shell of your ear. “Yes, you are. I never wanted anyone perfect, Arthur, and I certainly never meant to give you some sort of existential crisis. As Bono put it, all I want is you.”

It’s only with these words that you realize you’ve wasted nearly four years of your life in pure fear. It’s easily the smartest thing Eames has ever said. You shake your head in disbelief and pull him toward you by his collar, so you’re backed against the wall to your kitchen again. “You’re right. I’m a complete tart. Now shut up and fuck me.”

Eames’ eyes are radiant as he presses into you, a slow roll of hips that makes you shudder all over. His mouth meets yours in a slow, wet kiss, which soon turns frenzied. He breaks away to bite his way down your neck. “With pleasure, darling,” he murmurs. You’re gripping the edge of the wall with your left hand and as he slowly unbuttons your shirt, you let go completely.

[end]

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: Title from Mix Tape by Brand New. Additional intertitles: Bizarre Love Triangle (New Order), New Order (Confusion), The Promise (When in Rome), P.D.A. (Interpol), Something I Can’t Have (The Jesus and Mary Chain)


End file.
